O, Full Of Scorpions Is

A Countenance More In Sorrow Than In Anger.

But I Will Be, A Bridegroom In My Death, And Run Into't As To A Lover's Bed.

The Quality Of Nothing Hath Not Such Need To Hide Itself

O Momentary Grace Of Mortal Men, Which We More Hunt For Than The Grace Of God!

Things Without All Remedy Should Be Without Regard: What's Done Is Done.